


Finding Balance

by tisfan



Series: Tony Stark Bingo [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Breakup, Car Sex, Celtic Festival, Forgiveness, Gambling, Getting Back Together, M/M, Modern AU, caber tossing, irish dancer, no powers, side mentions of Irish Mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Tony’s still trying to get his life back on track when he runs into his ex. Bucky, who gambled away a fortune and then stole money from Tony… and then lied about it. Well, Tony’s still trying to find some balance…





	Finding Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Caber Tossing is a Gaelic sport that involves throwing very heavy poles and trying to get them to land in a clock pattern; the closer you get to 12:00, the better. It's very cool to watch if you're into big burly men throwing heavy things.
> 
> For my Stark Bingo square K5: Innocent until proven guilty

****“If you burp cheese doodle on me during the reel,” Pepper Potts said, hands on her hips, “I promise you that I will shave your legs while you’re sleeping.”

Tony Stark paused, mid-bite of a double-handful of cheesy goodness, to raise an eyebrow at his dance partner. Pepper always looked strange to him whenever her hands weren’t in the very proper position, resting relaxed, by her sides. It made her look angrier, wilder, and infinitely scarier than usual. He’d known her since she was six, so that was pretty damn scary, all things considered.

He finished chewing—noisily, of course, because after a line like that, he couldn’t just be meek and mild—then swigged half his Pepsi and burped forcefully.

“There’s two hours ’til we dance, Pep,” he said, licking cheese dust from his fingers. “I promise; I’ll be all done belching by then.”

“You’d better. Cheese doodle burps are the worst.”

“I think I might have to hold out for cucumber burps. When you made me drink that healthy kale-raisin-banana crap last year, I was tasting cukes for the next two weeks.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” Pepper protested. She was, too. She’d borne the brunt of his cucumber burps during practice, and that four-hour car ride when they’d had to roll the windows down in December because he couldn’t stop farting. He’d never drunk another kale smoothie again.

“I know,” Tony said. He dusted his hands off on his pants, leaving smears of bright orange behind. “But what fun would I be if I just dropped it?”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Speaking of dropping it, your old boyfriend is at the cabers. Thought you might want to know.”

Tony inhaled sharply. He hadn’t seen Bucky since last year, and he would be just as happy if he never saw Bucky again, but it was probably too much to ask that he not be at the Highland Games. Bucky Barnes was the best caber tosser in five states. He hadn’t lost a competition in years, and this was his stomping ground as much as it was Tony’s.

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“But you are,” Pepper said.

Tony shrugged. “I’ve been trying to not think about it.”

“Well, we can probably manage to avoid him,” she said.

“No caber tossing for me.” That was a laugh. The sort of body type Tony had as an Irish dancer—all long legs, slender hips, and lean shoulders—wasn’t the sort that ever, ever got into the heavy lifting. But it had been hard to resist watching the caber tossers. Huge, burly athletes, for the most part, in their kilts and their clan shirts and their weirdly adorable sock ribbons, straining to lift ridiculously large weights and then throw them… Tony had always been drawn to watch the highland sports and sigh over the thick thighs and arms like tree-trunks.

Four glorious months, and then it had all gone to shit over money, of all things. _Money_. Tony snorted, still disgusted with himself. It wasn't like he wouldn’t have lent the money out -- obviously he’d had the extra cash -- but no, Bucky had to go around behind Tony’s back and steal cash out of Tony’s emergency fund. That money, kept folded in a fake book, was for _emergencies_ , hence the name. Flat tire before work. Unexpected parking ticket. Broken tooth. That sort of thing. Not beer money. Not “I lost a poker game” money. And the simple fact that Bucky was playing poker with Hydra’s card sharps made Tony exceptionally nervous, anyway. There were just some levels of stupid you didn’t fuck around with, and those boys got into some shenanigans. The kind that sometimes accompanied broken legs and stolen cars.

But Bucky couldn’t get over himself being the kinda guy who could handle it. And Tony couldn’t forgive. Eventually, with a lot of yelling and screaming, it was over.

Which totally, totally sucked.

Tony glanced toward the pitch where the heavy weight throwing -- shot put and shot stone, heavy weights for length, heavy weights for height, hammer tossing, and eventually the pinnacle event the caber tossing -- would take place. There was a huge crowd between where he stood, in the middle of the mercantile rows, and the field. He couldn’t see anything, even if there was anything to see.

And there wasn’t.

Pepper slanted a glance at him. “Do you need a beer?”

Tony fumed. “Do I look like I need a beer?” He’d gone on a few benders, back when he and Bucky broke up, almost ruined his dance career, and Pepper had been the one to help him sober up.

“No, you look like you need a few shots of whiskey, but we’re up in—” she checked her phone “—less than ninety minutes and you’ve not got time to sober up. But I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Won’t that make me even more burpy?” Maybe Pepper was more immune to beer fumes.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you he was here,” Pepper fretted. “But I didn’t want you to run into him unarmed.”

“ _Unarmed_? Please. He’s not going to hit me with a caber, you know.” Frankly, Tony doubted that he could; those cabers were a bitch to balance, so anything like a moving target would be nearly impossible to hit. Caber tossing started with loggermen throwing trees across rivers, not trying to smack some fool on the head.

“Not on purpose,” Pepper said, shrugging.

***

Bucky bent, his hands over the smooth wood of the caber, seeking that perfect balance. He leaned the pole against his shoulder, heat burning in the muscles in his back and legs, lifted. Hands down, down, under the caber, touching the smooth rounded base. The caber wobbled, shifted. He staggered under the weight, straightened himself out. Took two, three, four of those weird, duck-like steps that were so necessary to getting the right projection, the right mix of momentum and balance, and heaved. The pole tumbled through the air like God throwing straws, struck true, and fell. A caber toss was judged on how far off from true twelve o’clock it fell, the closer to noon, the better the toss. Once, Bucky had thrown 12:02, but not today.

Bucky would have claimed 12:06, but only to himself.

He didn’t make bets anymore. He didn’t even fucking speculate. No bragging, no grandstanding. He just did the job he came to do, did it as well as he could, and moved on with his fucking life. No, no, he hadn’t moved on with his life, but if he kept telling himself that, maybe that would prove to be true. Eventually.

Yeah, learned that lesson, and damn well.  

Easy money wasn’t so easy. Once he got in deep with people like Jack Rollins and Arnim Zola, it was too damn hard to get out again. And Bucky wasn’t going to play cards, not again. That was trouble he hadn’t meant to fall into, but what the hell else was he going to do?

Just past the edge of the pitch, a slender man, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of an unfashionable hoodie, strode by. He didn’t linger, only glanced at the field and walked away. There was something broken and painful in the way he walked, shoulders rounded as if to ward off a blow. It was impossible, however, not to recognize that toned and perfect ass, even as much as Tony tried to hide it. Bucky sighed, followed him with his gaze until the man was lost again in the crowd. _God, Tony, what did I do?_

The judge called the time, 12:09. Bucky frowned, decided not to debate it. His teammates cheered and Alexander Pierce clapped him on the back once. It didn’t quite hurt, but honestly, he’d have rather not been touched -- not at that moment.

“Good work, son,” Pierce said. “You old tosser.”

“Yeah, get me a beer, would ya?” Bucky brushed off his shirt, his fingers still stinging from the feel of wood under them, from the shock of the afternoon. Not that he had any right to be shocked. Why wouldn’t Tony be here? It was Highland games, Tony was a dancer, and a damned good one.

 _Because I’m not ready._ He drained the beer in three gulps as Pierce handed it to him, and the older crewmate hadn’t even put his hand back down before Bucky left the empty plastic cup sitting in the wedge of his fingers. “You’re a one, Alex,” Bucky said.

Pierce frowned at the empty cup, then shrugged it away. Bucky was his star, his protégée, and if he was being a rude twee fucker right now, that was his right. Or at least, Bucky could get away with it, as long as he kept winning for Clan Hydra. That was what the games were about, right? Clan.

***

The guy was going to be a problem, and sooner than later, Tony thought. He -- the stranger, not Tony -- was staring at Pepper’s not-quite-impressive bosom, without even a flicker at her face, while they chatted. The bosom, Tony knew, was a little more rounded out when Pepper wasn’t in costume; with all the high kicks she did and the bouncing, springing steps of the dance, it was safer and more comfortable to bind her rack as flat as possible under the trapeze-style short dress she wore. She’d joked once, when they both hit the age of sixteen, that she was likely to kill him with her bouncing boobs.

That was one of the comforts of his world -- he and Pepper had been dancing together for so long that they could say anything to each other, absolutely anything. Or nothing at all. Both were equal and useful. Their friendship and long-term partnership was also the best disguise, for both him, and her. He eyed the stranger, then glanced up to see what Pepper wanted. If she wanted the guy to disappear, Tony would come out, play the jealous boyfriend type, and the dude would melt back into the woodwork. If she was actually interested in the guy -- and Tony fervently hoped not, since he seemed as dumb as a fence post -- he’d play “just dance partners.” Not that being _just partners_ meant anything. Tony had probably seen more naked Pepper in his life than all his actual lovers put together. That was just the nature of the show. You didn’t survive in dance by being modest.

Pepper grinned, so he didn’t storm over. For whatever reason, mouth-breathing boob gawkers were in this year. Or something.

Pepper flirted and Tony turned back to the mirror -- it wasn’t a very good mirror, just a polished piece of metal, but it was cheap, unbreakable, and easy to transport. He looked all right; he fastened on his cloak -- god, what a stupid costume. Who decided on a short, silk-lined cloak this year? Probably Natasha, she was the costume designer. The cloak probably looked nice enough while it flapped around behind him, but it would snap and snag and weigh him down weirdly. Ah, well.

Shoes, shoes, where’d he put his shoes? There was the bag. Tony sat down on a folding chair and dragged his bag over. He checked the fleece that lined the toes of his dance clogs—still good, although perhaps not as fresh as it could be. Felt better, smelled worse. At least his shoes weren’t as hideously ugly as Pepper’s. Hers looked like mutated ballet slippers.

“Come on,” he called to her, after his shoes were tightly laced. “Time to get ready.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony saw her slip the guy a folded piece of paper.

“Really?” he asked, once out of earshot. “You gave that guy your digits?”

Pepper shrugged. “He had an interesting idea for a first date, so I’ll give him a whirl.”

“You can do better than that, Pep,” Tony said. “You’re pretty, talented, smart—”

“Look, Tony, you and I both know that smart and funny and talented are all low second-rate consolation prizes, when you’re a girl. Men want pretty. Just _pretty_. So I need to take advantage of that while I have it. And he wants to go parasailing.”

“In October? You’re that desperate for a good first date?” Tony glanced over toward the pitch -- there was cheering going on, audible even over the buzz of the barkers and the clan-led group of bagpipes, and the music coming from various vendors, and announcements being droned over the speakers. He caught a glimpse of a caber falling, graceless and probably in the wrong direction, given the bad wobble.

“I’ll bundle up warm.”

“You know Maria’s going to kill you if you get yourself hurt.”

Maria was Tony’s mother, and the owner of the dance studio, and their trainer, coach, manager, and all-around meddlesome busybody. It was a testament to Tony’s memory that he even really remembered she was his mom at all. He was not, under any circumstances, allowed to call her mom, out in public. He didn’t even do it in private anymore. She was just Maria, not teacher, not coach, and especially not _mom_. Tony didn’t blame her; it probably had more to do with her miserable and failed marriage than Tony himself. Remembering Tony was her son would remind her that Howard Stark had once been her husband.

“Look,” he said, “I’m gonna swing past the pitch. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

“You’re going to go peek at your ex?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Okay,” Pepper said, thoughtfully. “Pick me up a piece of shortbread on your way back and I won’t give you hell about it.”

“Deal.”

Bucky wasn’t hard to spot, of course. He was the biggest, sexiest, most muscular caber tosser out there. Tony ached, just watching him. Clan Hydra’s tartan clung to his huge calves, each twist of his upper body was limned with the tight sports jersey he wore. God, Tony loved a big man. Not something he saw in his day-to-day work, really. Dancers were muscular, but caber-tossers and footballers were the sort of body type Tony preferred. _Give me a big man any day and twice on Sunday._

It had been more than Sunday since Tony had gotten it twice. In fact, there’d been a whole lot of empty Sundays. Right after they’d broken up, Tony gone on a slutstreak to match anything, but he didn’t find what he was looking for there. There was nothing interesting about men he didn’t know, bodies he didn’t care about. They filled a need, like food, but it was pap. Tasteless. Uninteresting.

Bucky was talking with one of his teammates, drinking a beer. _Pierce_. Tony sighed. Pierce had never approved of their relationship, but he’d also been the one who put Tony on his guard, let him know that Bucky was getting in over his head. Tony should have been grateful, but he found that he still hated Alexander Pierce for ruining the best relationship Tony had ever had.

Well, it hadn’t been that great, had it? Everything Pierce said turned out to be true, and now it was over.

Tony shook his head. He was never going to learn, and he was never going to fucking get over it if he didn’t stop deliberately torturing himself. Time to put it behind, let it go. Find someone new. Build a goddamn snowman if he had to.

He walked away. Time to dance.

***

The dance itself was easy, graceful, and simple. It was just a demonstration of dance, not competition. Of course they had to make it good, this was the time to gather new students, to interest people in the school. But they didn’t have to go all-out, and Pepper certainly hadn’t needed to create a new dress. She had dozens in her closet, each worth more than a used car. One of the primary jobs of her special coach was to make sure no one did something stupid, like spill a Coke on Pepper’s dress -- don’t laugh, it had happened and the fucking thing had been ruined, all fifteen thousand dollars of it -- and to make sure the dresses were moved from location to location.

Pepper’s coach was part dance instructor, part dietician, part wardrobe manager, part costume designer. She also happened to be Pepper’s aunt, which was almost as much beside the point as Maria being Tony’s mom.

He grasped Pepper’s hand, led her into the reel. Her fingers were cold, but they’d warm up soon. She had her glorious smile on, the one that lit her face like a candle, showed every one of her perfect, bleach-whitened, artificially straightened, capped teeth, and sparkled in her eyes like fireworks. It was, Tony knew, absolutely nothing like her real smile—where just the one side of her mouth tipped up.

Tony had a smile just like it: one hundred percent gorgeous, three hundred percent fake. They’d practiced those smiles in the mirror for hours. He didn’t even notice anymore when he pulled that smile out in public. It was as much a part of the costume as his slacks and shoes, the stupid little cape, and the elaborate dresses Pepper wore. Truth be told, Pepper herself was just as much a part of his costume -- she was his decoration, the glorious whirl of color on his arm next to his dark, black, sober uniform, which had only a few splashes of red and gold here and there, perfectly matched to her, of course. He was the backdrop on which all the art revolved.

Cross-over, under, skip, twirl. He let go of her hands and danced into center stage, his small solo part up, with the high kicks and the rapid feet-stomping that echoed over the stage and through the display area. Each time he stepped down, his heels rattled together, an invisible extra beat that no one could quite see where it was coming from. The audience was enthusiastic, but off count -- people just could not hold a rhythm without a visual -- and Pepper picked up on it, raising her hands over her head to get them back on the beat.

Two more turns about the stage and he rested in the back while Pepper showed off her moves. He never looked at the crowd -- it was a golden rule of dancing. You smiled, you pretended, but it was better if you just didn’t notice who was there, who was looking.

Tony looked into the crowd.

Because of course he did.

Bucky was there, toward the back, big as life and twice as hot, still wearing his tossing gear. The edges of his tight-fitting compression pants poked out the bottom of his kilt and his tree-trunk arms crossed over his still sweat-damp long-sleeved shirt. He watched the stage with all the concentration of a man in pain.

Next to Bucky, one hand on Bucky’s arm, was a man Tony did not know. _Could he look any more like a dudebro?_ The man wore his dark hair cut close around his face, a button-down blue shirt with no tie, just open enough to see the white undershirt beneath, jeans that clung to his hips and legs, and a leather jacket that hung to mid-thigh. Good looking, in a rugged, rough sort of way. One of Bucky’s friends, no doubt.

Even in the muddle of his emotional stew, Tony never missed an entrance. He joined Pepper mid-stage and they finished their set. His smile must have slipped; his face was probably an expressionless mask. Pepper noticed, her eyes grew rounded with alarm. Against his wrist, Tony felt the pressure of her fingers. He found the corners of his smile and slapped it back in place. It may well have been the hardest thing he’d ever done, putting his smile back on and finishing the dance when all he wanted to do was stride into the crowd and try to take the only thing he’d ever loved away from the person who’d stolen it from him.

Tony bowed, not taking his eyes from Bucky’s brawny frame.

“Come on, darling,” Pepper said, between clenched teeth. “Off the stage and let the wee ones perform.”

Tony nodded, bowed again, and exited. The girls -- and Peter Parker, who had started lessons a few years ago and was a natural -- were about eight to twelve years old, dressed in plainer pinafores than Pepper, but eager and giggling. Not quite the beginner’s class -- the really little ones had performed that morning, probably before lunch, and were already off to whatever other activities the day had in store for them; these were the intermediate students. In another year or so, and if Peter was still performing, Tony would take the kid under his wing and start mentoring.

Tony gathered his scattered thoughts together, smiled his more natural, real smile at his fellow dancers, and followed Pepper gratefully off the stage.

***

“Take your hands off me, now,” Bucky said, not looking down, not acknowledging Rumlow’s presence, and certainly not looking the scumbag in the eye. “I’m busy.”

“Too good for us now, are ya?”

“Got nothing to do with that,” Bucky said. “I’m watchin’ the dancers and you ain’t got anything useful to add to my experience.”

“Yeah, well, you want to be thinkin’ about what I said.”

“No, I do not,” Bucky said. “We’re done. You, me, and Steve. We’re all done, we’re square. None of us owe you anything. Stop hanging on my arm.”

“You think you’re so smart,” Rumlow said. He twisted the shark-finned collar of his jacket. The leather smelled of cigars and booze and cheap aftershave.

“I know that I’m not,” Bucky said. “Was stupid enough to get in that mess last year, I know it well. But I got out, and I’m stayin’ out, Rumlow. You can’t tempt me back into a card game, and you got nothing on me.”

“It wasn’t anything personal, you know that, right pal?”

“Kinda felt personal,” Bucky responded, shaking off Rumlow’s arm. If the man didn’t stop hanging on him like that, Bucky was going to break his arm and then there was going to be trouble. Bucky didn’t need any more trouble. Not with Hydra.

Which was where everything had gone south, and that right fucking fast. Pierce, Bucky’s coach, had gotten Bucky into a few games, introduced him around. Bucky never asked how deliberate that was -- of course Pierce engaged in illegal betting, most of the coaches did, careful-like. Pierce probably didn’t mean any harm, but Bucky didn’t want to know it, just in case.

Rumlow’d let Bucky win, because of course he did. That was how card-sharps worked; they let you in, let you blow a grand, get back seven. Some people could quit after that… and some people took the whole goddamn baited hook and played with it.

In his more self-conscious, less self-loathing moments, Bucky would say he really didn’t remember what happened. But he did, pretty damn clear. He’d lost, lost big. Let Rumlow goad him into making bets, more bets, more card games, borrowed money, paid some of it back, hey Bucky, Bucky, buddy, there’s a hot game going on tonight, and this sucker, and I just know, and sure thing….

When he had staggered out of bed, still piss-drunk, Bucky had realized what he’d done. And oh, but God, the bottom was still so far away… it was tempting as shit to just fall in and pull the dirt over his head. He could borrow some more and win it all back….

And then had come Rumlow at exactly the wrong time. Or the right time, depending on how you looked at it. All Rumlow had wanted was Steve Rogers. Bring Steve to one of the parties, get him drunk – as thin as Steve was, he was a lightweight for booze, and that wasn’t even counting if Rumlow had something else in mind -- have some fun, and everything would be fine. Rumlow didn’t even necessarily want to date the guy, unless, you know, he was interested in that sort of thing, but a good time in a hotel room for the weekend? It would be fine, everything would be fine.

Bucky had wised up.

He’d told Steve what he’d done, and the stupid thing that Rumlow wanted in exchange. Steve didn’t have much more money than Bucky did, shouldn’t have helped him, but at least he was warned that Rumlow had his eye set.

Steve wasn’t interested in Rumlow. In fact, he was pretty damned horrified. Steve make a bitter joke about it – how he’d pimp his art out, but he wasn’t going to pimp out his ass. Steve had helped him, though. He didn’t have to, he shouldn’t have had to, but he gave Bucky five grand, on a promise to stop gambling. It wasn’t even a loan.

Bucky had made good on the money he owed, and without touching another card game. That was shame, all right. Girls thought they knew about walks of shame after a cheap date, that was nothing, nothing, compared to going up to one’s grandfather and confessing the truth… that he’d gotten stupid, gotten cocky, gotten them all in trouble, and could he please borrow ten thousand dollars to fix it? The less thought about what Grampa said, the better.

And then Steve had gotten sick. The money that he would have used for a doctor, for treatment? He’d given it to Bucky.

Bucky couldn’t go back to Grampa. And he panicked. Stole money from his lover to cover that extra five grand.

And then Tony had found the money missing before Bucky could even start to pay that debt back… and everything just went crazy from there.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Rumlow said, “this ain’t over until I say it’s over.”

Bucky stared down at his fists; enormous, scarred knuckles. A boxer’s hands. “You know that if I punch you, you’ll be pickin’ your teeth out of the next row over, right? So, give it a fuckin’ rest, would you, and let me watch the dancin’? You can take up bein’ an asshole later.”

Sometimes, even the tide will turn away from the shore. Rumlow muttered something, probably threatening, and stalked off, his leather coat flapping in the autumn breeze. There was likely a gun of some sort tucked in his back belt -- Rumlow was just the sort of asshole who wouldn’t feel safe unless he was armed. Rumlow walked with that sway-legged confidence, the confidence of someone who feels bigger, meaner, and smarter than everyone else around him. He wasn’t, but he had that air about him. A girl stared after him, her eyes wistfully admiring.

Rumlow wouldn’t notice that girl… no, he wanted the one that was unobtainable, to prove something. Always, with Rumlow, having to prove himself.

Bucky turned back to the stage, just in time to watch the last glimpse of Tony’s sleek hips and taut buttocks wiggle right off. Bucky inhaled. _Just five minutes, please God, let him talk to me for five minutes._

***

Tony turned the corner and almost walked into a brick shithouse.

Okay, so maybe that was taking the metaphor a bit too far. Bucky wasn’t a shithouse; he might have been a shitty card player, but he was a decent enough person underneath, even if he was completely stupid. And gorgeous. Tony sighed. _Tony_ was going to be stupid, he just knew it. He was stupid. He was completely, stupidly, still in love with Bucky and he was going to talk to the person he was stupidly in love with.

“I’d say watch where you’re going, except I was the one walking.”

“Just standin’ here, baby,” Bucky said, spreading his hands.

“Intentionally. On purpose. In my way. You know, probably by accident,” Tony pointed out. “Not that it matters to you that I don’t really want to talk to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Bucky said. “Let me buy you a whiskey, hmmm? We can talk about old times and I’ll even let you throw your drink in my face if I upset you.”

“Waste of perfectly good whiskey,” Tony said.

“I know. I ain’t worried.”

Yes, he was worried. Tony could see worried printed out in every line in his face. If Bucky had a tattoo, it would have said _Worried_. Tony sighed. “What do you want, Bucky?”

“Same thing most people want,” Bucky said, taking that as assent and leading the way toward one of the various whiskey trucks. It was as much assent as Bucky was likely to get, so Tony followed him, letting Bucky plow his way through the crowd. The various fair-goers collapsed in on Bucky’s wake, so Tony was forced to step lively to keep to the clear path.

“Closure. Forgiveness. Love. A second chance? Still a Glenlivet man?”

Tony couldn’t help but crack a smile, and was fortunate that he did so behind Bucky’s back, because he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to soften up, not just yet. “Seriously? You’re gonna pour that swill into me while you’re trying to prime me for… whatever it is you think you can get away with?”

“Right. Jamison’s it is.”

Bucky knew that already, but that argument about whiskey had gone on for hours until one of Bucky’s friends had suggested a drinking contest that had gotten both of them so drunk it had taken two days to recover. Ah, good times. It had been a while since Tony had gone on a really good bender. Not counting the nearly two-week professional-level lushcapade he’d thrown himself into when Bucky had left… that didn’t count, that was therapy, not entertainment.

There was, Tony thought, something entirely unholy about being served a double shot of whiskey over an ice-ball. In a plastic. Fucking. Cup. With the label of the vendor printed on the side. He took a slow sip anyway.

Fortified with liquid courage, Tony raised his eyes to Bucky. “So, what is it that you have to say?”

“I wanted to say I was sorry,” Bucky said. “You probably already know that, so I won’t belabor the point. I fucked up. Big time. And then I lied to you about it, which was the stupid cherry on top of a great, daft sundae.”

Tony inhaled, taking calm from the smooth aroma of the whiskey in his cup. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “You’re sorry. You’re forgiven. Doesn’t change anything.”

“I didn’t expect it to,” Bucky said. “But I wanted to explain, wanted to… I know you don’t want to give me a second chance, baby, but I’ve missed you. More than you could know, and I won’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t… try to explain or something.”

“It’s that ‘or something’ that concerns me,” Tony said, muttering darkly into his ice ball.

“No, it’s not like that,” Bucky protested. “I don’t expect… could you just listen? For once?”

 _For once?_ Tony simmered in his anger a bit; hadn’t he done everything, including listen, while Bucky defended himself against theft, stupidity, gambling; hadn’t Tony just been there, willing to hear?

“You’re still not listening,” Bucky said, softly. “Just… I know, I was wrong. I lied because I was scared. I was scared that you would be angry, I knew you would be angry, of course you would be, you had every right to be. I… I lied because I thought maybe, just maybe, if you just thought I was just an idiot, that you might get over it. That was badly done of me. I lied because it wasn’t for me. I did not steal the money for me… It was about Steve.”

“Rogers? You stole money from me to give to Steve Rogers?” Now Tony was really pissed. Bad enough that Bucky had stolen money, that he’d lied about it, but for Steve fucking Rogers? God damn him straight to hell.

“I know you don’t like him,” Bucky said, tentative, twisting his fingers together.

“I don’t… of _course_ I don’t like him. He’s a self-absorbed little prick.” And the fact that Steve Rogers was Bucky’s best friend, inseparable, that Bucky had dropped everything, more than once, to help Steve, to be there for Steve, that he gave more to Steve and their relationship than he seemed to give to Tony. Tony had his friends, of course, and Pepper, who he loved, but it had always, always felt to him that if the choice had been between Steve and Tony, that Bucky wouldn’t even have looked back. And…

Bucky proved that right, didn’t he?

“I just wasn’t a conversation I was prepared to have, baby,” Bucky said. “You hate him, and I know it’s my fault that you do, but… I was intending to pay you back, hopefully before you ever noticed. You might cut me some slack.”

“Being a thief isn’t an impulse decision, Bucky, unless you’re already used to the idea.”

“And you’ve never been stupidly desperate,” Bucky shot back.

“No,” Tony admitted. “I don’t think I have.” He wasn’t the golden boy everyone thought he was. His father might be Howard Stark, stupidly rich and privileged. But when Maria had left, and Tony had gone with her, all that financial support had dried up. Tony knew if he wanted to give up his life and a satisfying career, Howard would take him back. Would mold him into what Howard wanted, but it would come with all the money and fame that Tony could ever want. Had Tony ever been desperate? He peeked under his lashes at Bucky, big and grim and twisting his fingers together like he wished he had a cap between them, big scarred knuckles raw and white.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Bucky said. “I was just unprepared to tell you the truth, and I was scared, and I did something stupid.”

It was hard to believe that Bucky could be frightened of anything, so big and strong and handsome he was.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you,” Bucky admitted.

“How’d that work out for you?”

Bucky tightened his mouth at the corners and pinched the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger. “You ain’t gotta be an ass about it,” he said.

“I know,” Tony said. “But sometimes that doesn’t keep me from being an asshole anyway. I… look, I don’t know if I can just forget and go back to the way things were, Bucky.”

“I never said that I wanted you to,” Bucky protested. “I know that would be… too much. But here, look—” he handed Tony a slip of paper, “I wanted you to have this, just in case. It doesn’t make up for nothing, but I couldn’t leave things the way they were.”

Tony was still struggling to understand what he’d been given; there wasn’t a lot of light in a whiskey tent, for reasons that were probably obvious, and Tony was still not seeing them. By the time he unfolded the paper and realized that what he had was a cashier’s check made out for over a thousand dollars, Bucky was gone.

***

“You know,” a familiar voice said, just beyond Bucky’s shoulder, “that while I might agree with you that closure is over-rated and useless, it’s really hard to get if you don’t stick around long enough.”

“Told you, did not want that,” Bucky said. He was already drunk, and thank God for that much, because he didn’t know if he could take any more of this sober.

“You don’t want closure?” Bucky had the feeling that Tony was laughing at him, just a little bit, and it shouldn’t hurt because he’d drunk enough to numb a bull elephant, and yet, his heart ached and his stomach did that weird shuck-and-jive thing it always had right before he knew he was going to make a fucking fool of himself. Maybe he’d drunk too much and was just getting ready to do a big scene, right here in front of God and everyone, and beg Tony to come back to him.

“Do not want you… to fuckin’ feel sorry for me.”

“Believe me, Buckybear,” Tony said. “The very last thing I have here is pity.”

“How do you mean?”

Tony sat down, uninvited. He looked… confused, Bucky might have said.

“I still think you deserve it,” Tony said. “You fucked up. You acted stupidly and selfishly, and all you got was me hurt and you hurt. I hope to God you actually helped Steve, or this was just one big exercise in fuckery.”

“Stevie’s okay,” Bucky said. “Well, not as okay as I’d like, but neither of us was ever expecting to come away from this unscathed. And--” he said, thinking of Rumlow and Rumlow’s obsession, “--we still may not be totally out of the woods yet. Another year or so, and this’ll all just be a really bad memory.”

“And it’s already been eight months,” Tony said. Very slowly, as if he were reaching into a fire, he laid his hand lightly over the back of Bucky’s wrist. “Eight months that you’ve been doing it without me.”

“You did kinda say not to darken your doorstep,” Bucky pointed out. Only reasonable.

“Next time, you need to explain sooner.”

“Dear God in Heaven and Lucifer in a fucking snowbank, what makes you think there’s going to be a fuckin’ _next time?_ ” Bucky couldn’t have been more horrified if he’d tried.

“Because I still love you,” Tony said. “And I would like to try this… whatever it is we have… again. Which means, inevitably, one of us will fuck up and the other one will be really angry about it. It’s the nature of both bein’ in love. So, how’s about you and I work on our communication skills, before we lose this for good?”

“Next time, it’s your turn to fuck up,” Bucky said. “And I look forward to it.”

Tony leaned over and whispered in his ear, “How ’bout I take you someplace nice and just fuck you?”

“Lookin’ forward to that, too,” Bucky agreed.

***

“And this is what you call nice?” Bucky said. Admittedly, the Toyota wasn’t as clean in the backseat as it could have been, but Tony didn’t recall him being so picky before.

“No, just immediately available,” Tony said. “You can wait for a few hours while I try to track down a hotel room somewhere in a town what’s been hit with ten thousand tourists, but….”

“Where are you stayin’?”

“With my Aunt Peggy, and I don’t think she’s gonna be all that keen on letting me boink you in the back bedroom, given that she still thinks I’m about twelve and in need of mollycoddling.”

“Oh.”

“And I already know you’re staying with your team, about half of whom ignore how blatantly gay you are, so I’m not even going to ask.”

“Well, I gotta say, the accommodations look suddenly a bit more… accomodatin’.”

“Thought you might see it my way,” Tony smirked. He was done talking, done long since, and let his body do the rest. He slammed his mouth up onto Bucky’s, held the big man with as much strength as Tony could muster -- which wasn’t inconsiderable, but Bucky, as always, was bigger and stronger than expected.

With an ease born of almost two decades of conditioning, Bucky flipped Tony onto his back, pinning him to the seat, amid old, empty cups and a few sweaty towels. It smelled remarkably like the locker room of his high school down there. Tony didn’t care. It could smell like a sewer and the sweetest thing in the world was right there, in front of him.

Bucky had never been much for sweet words or long caresses, and Tony was stunned to discover that much, at least, had changed. Bucky took his time, kissed and stroked each part of Tony he could reach, returning again and again to claim kisses from his mouth, to plunge his tongue between Tony’s willing lips.

Tony wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck to hold him there and breathed in the flow of air that Bucky breathed out until he was panting, desperate for oxygen, and he had to quit, lying back against the leather seats and heaving for breath.

“I ain’t going anywhere,” Bucky said. “You don’t gotta take it all at once.”

“It’s just been so long, Buckybear,” Tony gasped, appalled to find himself on the edge of tears.

“I know. Which is what makes it so sweet, darlin’,” Bucky said. “Ain’t been no one since you. Ain’t gonna be no one… never met anyone what makes me want to be a better person, ain’t never met anyone who thought I could _be_ a better person. I don’t just love _you_ , Tony, I love who I am, when I’m with you.”

There was nothing immediately in Tony’s mind to say to that, and while Tony struggled with his suddenly aching chest, Bucky went to town on getting all of Tony’s clothes off him. Since that wasn’t a goal that Tony had a problem with, he helped.

“I don’t think anyone has ever--”

“No one has ever cared for anyone as much as I love you, Tony,” Bucky said, cutting off that line of thought by dipping a hand into the gap left by Tony’s zipper and copping a feel through one single layer of cloth.

Bucky’s hand was hot and heavy, and Tony arched up into that caress like he was lifted up by the hips. “God.”

***

“That’s my doll, there,” Bucky said, his eyes shining as he watched Tony squirm under the tormenting sweetness of Bucky’s hand. “That’s exactly right.”

Tony couldn’t shed out of his pants quickly enough, and Bucky was lucky that they were loose-fitting. After a dance, Tony’s thighs would swell and the skinny jeans he preferred for fashion had a tendency to cut off circulation in Tony’s feet. After any dance, Tony was not at all fashionable. So, the jeans came off and ended up slung over the seat in front of them.

“Hurry it on up,” Tony said. “We’re not exactly private, parked out here.” Which was true; Tony’s old car was along the edge of the woods although people probably wouldn’t see them. It was still mid-afternoon and the Highland Games didn’t end until early morning -- officially, around 11pm, but Bucky would like to see the city try to kick out drunk, celebrating Irish and Scots. Wasn’t happening -- but there was no sense taking chances.

Bucky went down on Tony as soon as his ass was bare, swallowing a mouthful of cock without hesitation or finesse.

Bucky kept Tony pinned to the backseat, letting him squirm around, but nothing more. Bucky was going to have his satisfaction with Tony’s body; it was only fair, given how long he’d deprived himself. Tony didn’t seem inclined to protest, too much, and so Bucky did as he wished, licking and sucking at that fine cock, feeling Tony’s thighs tighten almost painfully around Bucky’s barrel-like chest.

“Don’t want to be cracking my ribs there, baby,” Bucky said, around a mouthful of cock. It probably came out more sounding like, “Dunnnno ‘anna ‘e,” but Tony understood and loosened his grip, a little bit. Strong legs, powerful thighs, there was only so much he could do.

Bucky teased him, licking, sucking, running his mouth up and down the long vein as if he were playing a mouth organ, then laughing at himself with a mouthful for making a terrible pun that he didn’t even have time to share. Vibrating laughter along the length of Tony’s cock made Tony lose control, finally. He groaned, surged upward, and came -- a thick, hot wad of come catching Bucky in the back of the throat before he got himself arranged to swallow without choking.

“You got a rubber, right?” Tony asked, his voice thick with satisfaction, verging on the edge of sleep.

“Musta left that in my other kilt,” Bucky said. “You’re usually the one with --”

Tony eyed him from under thick lashes. “I’m good if you’re good.”

Bucky gaped. “You trust me, that much?”

“I know I’m clean,” Tony said. “Maria insists on my getting tested, although she still pretends she doesn’t know what for, but I don’t need an STD while tryin’ to dance, so I go along with it. And you said you haven’t been with anyone else but me. So, yeah. I trust you.”

Bucky swallowed, the lump in his throat hard to breathe around.

“There’s lube in my bag,” Tony said.

Bucky dug around and what he found was Vaseline, not lube, but it would do in a pinch, especially since they weren’t using rubbers anyway.

 “You’re gonna need to get yourself ready.” There wasn’t much prep he could do; Bucky’s fingers were still poke-ended with slivers of wood and that _was_ _not_ a place he wanted to transfer a splinter. Tony would appreciate that later, even if he didn’t quite now.

Tony snarled, got his fingers slick with petroleum jelly, and reached back. He was impatient with himself, brutal and fast with the prep, taking a lot less time than he should have, but they were both raw with need. Bucky lubed himself up while Tony stretched, and then bumped Tony’s fingers out of the way with the head of his cock.

Tony gritted his teeth until Bucky heard his jaw crack. “Slow….”

“Tryin’,” Bucky said. It had been so long, so very long, and damn, he didn’t really want to go slow, not anymore, but he owed it to Tony and to Tony’s trust to do as much as he could to make it easier. So he was slow, and he was sorry when he couldn’t be slow. A few muffled grunts and one high, reedy whine later and Bucky was situated. He moved, easy. Gentle. Careful. He stroked and he teased and he thrust again, pushing farther in -- an inch, maybe two.

He touched Tony’s sweet face, his hair damp with sweat and sticking out like a crazy man, and Tony nipped at Bucky’s fingertips. “Love you.”

And then Bucky couldn’t be careful anymore. By that time, however, Tony had relaxed into it, and thank God for that, because Bucky wanted nothing more than to get closer, closer, and he slammed himself into Tony, as if it were possible to climb into Tony’s skin and live there. He thrust, ramming himself into that soft, sweet flesh, wanting, wanting, needing. Tony’s legs came up around him again, holding Bucky, riding him. Tony flexed his dancer’s hips and his powerful thighs, crushing himself onto Bucky.

“God, I love you, love you,” Bucky cried in Tony’s ear, giving up the very core of himself as he came with a white-hot intensity the likes of which he’d never before experienced.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” Tony groaned, easing into it, his teeth scraping down Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky collapsed against Tony, drove their tangled, sweaty, aching bodies firmly into the cheap upholstery.

“Uh,” Tony said after a long, long, drowsy moment. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow. Nah, fuck that. I’m sore _now_.”

“Um, sorry?” Bucky eased back, pulled himself out.

“S’okay. We don’t perform tomorrow. You can ease my pain by buying me a lot of whiskey and lounging around with me at the concerts.”

Bucky snorted. “You can buy me whiskey. I gave you the last of the money I have ’til next paycheck.”

Tony leaned up on his elbow and started gathering his clothing together. He was pulling on his jeans when he finally said, “You really still don’t plan ahead, do you?”

“Tryin’ to find a good balance, baby,” Bucky said. “It takes a bit of wibble-wobble to get your caber in the air.”

“All right, then,” Tony said. “Drinks are on me -- and everything else, while we figure this out.”

“Just for two weeks,” Bucky said, mildly offended. “I do have a job, you know.”

“Not just tossing cabers?”

“Not just tossing cabers.”

“Good to know.”

 


End file.
